


Blindside

by hellkitty



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Dubious Consent, F/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:43:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4060483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, hey, here's a pairing absolutely nobody wants to read porn of.  </p>
<p>*takes bow* </p>
<p>That's my job.  You're welcome, fandom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blindside

Miss Giddy was already at the vault’s door by the time the ringing knock stopped, ready to step through the moment the door swung wide. She tucked her arms into her sleeves, to hide the shaking of her aging hands. Vanity, she thought, but impressions mattered, especially to the War Boys.

It had seemed like a good idea, that night, at one of Joe’s interminable council feasts, showing off to the People Eater and the Bullet Farmer, where his closest circle ate and talked, and he paraded his treasures. All but his Wives, of course.

Miss Giddy had been called upon for stories, and he—the musician—had been there for music. And she had been struck by his talent, by the emotion, more than the notes, he wrung from the guitar—she, Miss Giddy, one of the few other than Joe himself old enough to remember music before the world died.

And she’d thought to share this with her charges, the Wives: bring this musician, boy, man, manchild (the latter which, she’d come to realize, was how Joe preferred to keep them, weak and beholden) to let the women hear real music, music as it should be, not just the rote tapping of a sequence of keys that they could perform, flawlessly, but soullessly. They deserved music.

They deserved so much more, she knew, and if she’d thought they stood a chance of survival, sheltered and fragile as they were, she would have been, would be, the first to help them. She could not help them the way they needed, so she did what little she could.

But she felt a qualm when she saw him again, now slumped, bonesack limp against one of the hydroponic system’s beams, face as pale as a War Boy’s, slack and emotionless, the eyes or where they eyes should be) merely hollowed sockets like empty spoons.

“Coma.” He had a name, and Miss Giddy intended to use it. Too many War Boys desperate to be seen, desperate to be recognized, for her to not learn.

He rose, faster than she thought possible, like a coiled spring releasing, as though someone had flipped a switch from ‘off’ to ‘on’ in him. One pale hand moved—fast—too fast—and caught Miss Giddy’s arm, pulling her close, up, so that she had to balance—barely—on her tiptoes as he lowered his face to her, his other hand, fingers spread, skimming over her face, lingering on some of the lines of text tattooed into her skin.

He looked as feral as some of the blood bag slaves she’d seen, and she wondered, abruptly, if this was, well, entirely safe, to bring a feral male in among the wives.

But Joe himself had approved it, and there was no man more protective of his chosen favorites than Immortan Joe. They were property, but property that he treasured…in his way. If there was any risk….

Whatever he sensed, whatever his hand read over the lines of her face, he stepped back, releasing her, with something like a nod. Miss Giddy took a moment to gather herself, smoothing down the fabric of her sleeve, resettling her shawl—and her face, she hoped. “I’m glad you came,” she managed, her voice a little unsteady, but determined to be courteous. She would not, ever, if she could help it, treat anyone in the Citadel with anything other than respect, honor, courtesy.

“Not like he had much say in it,” the War Boy behind her laughed. He’d been watching the whole thing—a comfort, perhaps, that he would have been there to step in if there had been any danger, but a dismay that he had simply…watched.

“Did no one ask him?”

“Not much of a conversationalist,” the War Boy said, with a shrug.

So…they’d just brought him here. No, she’d smelled the harsh lye of soap on him when he’d been close enough to her—they’d taken him, bathed him, and brought him here, without….

It boggled the mind, truly it did. “Well.” She set her shoulders. “We invited—I invited—you here to play for some friends of mine tonight.” Were they friends? She could dream, though she knew otherwise. Still, they confided in her, shared their secrets, fears and hates, knowing she would not pass them up to Joe. She never had, she never would. “Is that all right?”

A moment, and a sort of inward turn, before a shrug. It was probably as good as she was going to get. The War Boy took it as some signal, stepping forward with the guitar, pressing it into the musician’s hands. “Gonna have to lead ‘im,” the War Boy laughed. “Bit hard of sight, yeah?”

He didn’t smother his laugh at her look, so she hesitated, just for a moment, before taking one of the musician’s hands, leading him like a child. He was obviously used to it, following her, his hand, calloused and large, pulling him forward.

“There’s a step up, here,” she said, turning inside the round threshold, but he didn’t need her help, somehow managing the guitar and his balance and the step up to the curved surface. Miss Giddy was aware of the Wives, gathered around the entrance, as she stepped from the shadow, saw them take in the waxy pale hand in hers, and then the taller shape behind her, one that obviously wasn’t Joe.

“As ugly as everything else around here." A disappointed sigh from the Dag.

"Dag." Miss Giddy frowned.

"It's not my fault. Everything around here is ugly, or broken, or both. I'm sick of it." The Dag flipped her hands in a gesture of exasperation.

Angharad gave a resigned, but wiser, sigh. "You don't think Joe would let anyone actually tempting in here?"

"He has beautiful hands." That from Toast, still new enough to be curious, if not hopeful.

"A compliment from Toast? Apparently, guest, you have quite lovely hands."

And Miss Giddy watched the musician, who had stood under the insults to his looks with a sort of stoic blankness, seem to bridle, as though trying to hide his hands.

"And he has a name,” Angharad prompted.

"Coma," the old woman said, and her voice held that comforting note, her hand brushing the back of his upper arm. "He has a name." He had a story, too, she was certain, one she still had to prize out of Joe. She suspected it was something personal, something he didn’t volunteer for what it would reveal about himself, taking in a blind mute, and making him more than a simple blood slave. “One of Joe’s finds.”

“No doubt,” Capable said, stepping closer. “I suppose he can play that?”

“Joe wouldn’t keep him around if he couldn’t do something,” Toast said.

True enough, and the Wives all knew what ‘something’ Joe expected of them, and it fell like a scrim between them. This was not what Miss Giddy had wanted. “Well then,” she said, forced brightness in her voice, “Shall we let him?” She turned to him. “When you’re ready.”

Apparently, he was ready, or, Miss Giddy rather suspected, he preferred to hide behind the music, because his hand curled around the neck of the guitar, and those hands, she had to admit, really were beautiful in the gentle way they held the instrument.

 He started a little harsh, a little loud, as though using the music to break through the soured mood of the room, and Miss Giddy could hear the call to war under the notes, a driving violent pulse. She didn’t want that, not for the Wives, not for herself, but she didn’t have much time to protest before the music changed, shifting downward in key, and somehow the music lost its violence, becoming a wail, a wire-string of pain and loss that seemed to drill its way down through Miss Giddy’s chest, wrapping around her fluttering heart.

The women, the wives, had fallen silent, in different shades between a reflective kind of awe and emotion: even the Dag tilting forward on her feet, as though chasing the music around the room, watching it soar and fly and hover over him, Angharad swaying gently from side to side, as though rocked and soothed by the rhythm.

It was impossible to describe music. Miss Giddy knew this enough, but it didn’t stop her—woman of words that she was—from trying, trying to find the right words, other unpinned adjectives than ‘beautiful’ or ‘aching’ or too precise terms like ‘arpeggio’ and ‘glissando’. They all fell flat, far short of the music he wrung from the instrument, that put her own poor piano playing to shame. Even his face came alive, in a sense, shifting and mobile, echoing the rise and swoop of the melody. She couldn’t tell how long he played, but the night had gathered its thickest wings against the solarium by the time the last note faded to silence, and he went slack again, as though emptied out, the guitar sliding down its strap, neck pointing at the ground, as if surrendering, and Miss Giddy felt tears on her withered cheeks, drying in the cool air.

There was no sound from the wives, as though any noise after the music would shatter the crystal dome of something beautiful that had been spun around them 

And then he turned, back toward the vault’s door, his step slow and shuffling. Miss Giddy had to rush to catch up, catching his elbow, guiding him back to the door, her other hand tapping on the vault.

There was a long moment, before the door swung open, and she could hear his breath—feel it on her neck, his close, animal proximity, patient and waiting, as though it were fine to be used like this, to perform, to entertain, no matter what the cost. Because it must have cost him something, to pull that emotion from the strings, and Miss Giddy turned, rising up on her toes, to pull her arms around his neck, in a fragile hug. “Thank you,” she whispered, because someone should, because in this world of death and fire and pain, anything that could find or sing beauty into it should be celebrated.

His free hand came up, and she held still as it explored her face again, finding the salt tracks of her tears, tracing them down her cheeks, and then, just as the door opened, she felt herself lifted up, two strong arms behind her back, and she was breathless at the force of it, a crude, ungentle hug, and she felt his heartbeat against her just for a pulse, maybe two, before he lowered her to the ground, one blind hand finding the wall to follow to the now open door.

 

*****

“I want to talk.” Miss Giddy pushed into Joe’s room, past the War Boy, who was torn between commanded respect for her, and for his leader and god.

“When do you want to do anything else,” Joe muttered. Without his respirator, without his costume, he looked, Miss Giddy thought, exactly like what he was—an old, desperate man. He gestured to the War Boy, on edge, in the doorway, to stand down. “What is it this time, Miss Giddy?”

For a moment, she felt for him. Not exactly sorry, because he’d brought all this upon himself, all the responsibility, all the weight of it. But still. He was old, she was old, and she knew how heavy even self-imposed weights could be.

“Your musician.”

“What of him?” He was on the blade’s edge of relief and wariness, as though he expected something worse, and wasn’t quite sure he should feel like he’d been let off easy.

“His story.”

“I found him.” A shrug, and then a sigh, and he waved her closer, nudging a chair with one booted foot, for her sit down, pouring her some water.

“Joe.” Her voice was chiding, and sometimes she thought he almost enjoyed this, being able to talk to him, person to person, with someone who held him in no awe at all, but followed him anyway.

“A mine outside the Bullet Farm. A few years back. Dionna’s time.” Dionna, the head wife before Angharad, and how Joe marked the passage of time. He took a sip of his own water, buying time. “There was some…trouble.” She knew how much could hide under that word, especially from Joe’s mouth.

She waited, taking her own sip of water, one eyebrow quirking. Two could buy time, Joe.

“His mother was.” A pause, Joe searching for the right word—Miss Giddy always made people self-aware of their words. “Killed. He witnessed it. Well, as much as he could.”

Too much in the story already, too much suffering and pain, too much cruelty. Miss Giddy doubted the word ‘kill’ even began to cover it. She didn’t regret the awkward embrace she’d given him, or the one she’d received, which had nearly bruised her old ribs.

“Miss Giddy,” Joe sighed. “Everyone’s got a story. Very few are good. Even mine.” He’d never admit that to anyone else, only her, and she knew that this was what kept her safe. Joe needed a confidant, someone he could let down his guard around.

“You’ve done better than most,” she said. Less flattery than simple truth. One thing she could not take away from Joe was how he’d worked to build this little triumvirate of settlements, and how much success he’d had, against astronomical odds.

“This isn’t about me,” he demurred. “Why the sudden curiosity?”

“I’m an old woman. Curiosity is my weakness.” She gave a shrug, as if that were all. “Your wives enjoyed his playing.”

Joe grunted. “Then you know why I brought him back.”

“Perhaps I never figured you as a patron of the arts.”

He laughed, arms stretching up overhead, mouth dropping into a yawn, deliberately crude, mouth stretching open, showing his teeth. “You can’t deny I have a keen personal aesthetic.” It was almost a joke, and the kind of intimacy he shared with her. As though it made up for, well, anything.

“I’d like to speak with him.”

“He doesn’t talk.” A quick, flat denial. She knew he wouldn’t give her what she asked for so easily, if only on principle.

“He can listen.”

“Ah. A captive audience? I thought you already had one.” A mild taunt, his mouth pulling back on one side, cutting the harshness a little. This was just jousting for him, like two cats tussling 

“Perhaps I, like you, want variety.” Two could play at that game, Joe, she thought.

He looked at her for a long moment, eyes narrowing, considering. “He’s not entirely tame,” he said, finally. “Or sane.”

“Who of us is?” Sanity was wholeness and wholeness had a tendency to be broken around here.

“Very well.” And this time the sigh was for show, as if he was washing his hands of the whole matter. “Just don’t talk his ears off. I need him to play.”

 

*****

The War Boy who led her to Coma’s room kept his thoughts to himself, but Miss Giddy could feel the look on her shoulders as she passed under his arm, into the space. It had a door. And a lock. On the outside.

Well.

It was too late to think deeply about that now, as she heard the door swing shut behind her. It was nowhere near as heavy and solid as the vault, but it still had a thunk of finality, that it was he and she alone.

She could cry out for help, she knew. Joe wouldn’t leave her anywhere without a guard. But she would not cry out now, an old woman, afraid to be alone with the very person she’d asked to be alone with. She did have pride.

And he…was asleep, curled like a child on the rough plinth of stone, the faint ray of moonlight from the skylight above giving just enough illumination that his pallor seemed to catch it, a reflection of reflected light. She stepped closer, sure that the noise, surely, had wakened him, but he was lost, deep in slumber, one hand curled, cupping empty air.

He looked so much like a child—alone, lost, vulnerable—that Miss Giddy felt that pain in her heart again, like a wire slicing through her, and she closed the distance between them. He looked like a child, she thought, despite the round swell of his shoulder muscles, the corded wrists.  And the light was dim enough, or her eyes were misted with tears enough, that he looked so much like....

...him. Her son, lost to time, lost in the days of the water wars. The last phone call, both unaware that it was to be the last, and then that evening, on the news....the flash and broken buildings and the phone wouldn't even ring, just that horrid 'all trunks are down' voice, so mechanical and bland, and....

And she had lost a son. And he had lost a mother. And it felt like some kind of symmetry.  

Miss Giddy sighed, moving to stroke the air over his sleeping head, like combing a dream, the way she used to soothe her son when he was a child, sick with fever, fretful and restless.  

That woke him--the gesture, or the proximity, something about it gave her away, and he caught at her hand, the sleep swept from his body, every line taut and tense and wary.  

"It's me, Miss Giddy," she said, helplessly.  She could feel the powerful muscles in his hands, the broad pad of his thumb, the sinewy strong fingers, that could bruise her wrist half a thought.  "I was just...I had a son," she said, her other hand fluttering, like a trapped bird.  Her knees felt liquid, and she wavered to sit, perching one hip on the stone to steady herself from the onslaught of memory.  

"I can't even tell the story right," she confessed. "Too many things I'd have to explain." Phones, television, the water wars, the video games her son had loved, even as a grown man, the internet...things they'd all taken for granted.  "I had a husband, too, and I loved him. Lost him, too, but...but Nicky was my son.  I wanted--we both wanted--for him the things we never had.  We wanted his life to be perfect. I suppose all parents do."  Or did: it was hard to want perfection out here and maybe even Joe hadn't gotten the trick of it quite right.  

He moved, again, curling on the plinth, to rest his head in her lap, and the weight of it was comforting, somehow, a presence, real and human, and he still hadn't let go of her hand, fingers twined in hers, listening.

"The worst part," Miss Giddy said, and the words came from that torn place in her heart that had been opened by his music, "is how banal the whole story is.  Millions of mothers had the same story. There's nothing unique or original about it at all."  But it still hurt.  It was still, however common, a pain that couldn’t be lessened by sharing.

He brought her hand to his mouth, and she could feel the steam of his breath on her knuckles, the warm pressure of unscarred lips.  And her heart seemed to crack open, shuddering a sob into her voice, the final, last, most horrible confession.  Because the banality of it all wasn't the worst. This was: "Sometimes," she said, and her voice was a rasping whisper of pain, "I'm glad he died. So he didn't have to live through...this."  That she didn't have to see him change, decivilize, do any of the thousand things they all had done to survive.  Even her. Even her.  

Some small gesture, like a nod, mute and understanding, and she squeezed at his hand, milking it for comfort, for his sheer, animal steadiness.  It was awful, unmotherly, what she'd confessed, and it felt vulnerable and frightening to admit, to be heard and understood.  

A wet touch on her knuckles, and her tear-stinging eyes looked down. He was...licking her hand, tasting her skin, like a cat grooming its companion.  Strange, but he was strange, after all.  And his silence and the contact had done more to soothe her than anything in all the years since the rise of the Wastes.  

She felt a sob rise up in her, again, and another, like a cleansing spring rain, pain, but the kind that clears out, cleans out, wracking her old ribs.

He pushed up onto one hand and for the briefest moment his fingertips skimmed her face, feeling the tears that poured free, undammed, down her cheeks, and then he pulled her into an embrace, rising up on his scarred knees, so much like the brief hug before, and then he moved, faster than a lynx, pushing her back, her fall broken by the bar of his forearm under her shoulderblades, and he was on top of her, his weight very real and very male, and his hand scrambled with her long skirts, pushing them over her knee, baring her knee, her thighs, her....everything, snatching her underclothes aside.

She heard Joe's voice, an echo in her mind: he was half wild, he'd said, not entirely tame.  A warning, maybe a sign of this, and she braced herself for the coming pain, a man, after all these years, pushing into her, unwanted, taking his animal pleasure from her, using her for comfort, and her tears turned to tears of shame, that she'd not seen it, not imagined it. That she'd written over him with Nicky so much that she'd forgotten, she'd allowed herself to forget, that men could be brutal, that they saw pain as an opening.  

She could cry out, bring the War Boy outside, but he'd see, and it was somehow worse to imagine the story of this spreading through the Citadel, the undying shame of having been tricked, forced, humiliated.  No.  It was awful, but it was better to bear it alone.  If only she'd borne the grief alone, not thought to share it...

There was no time for that now, her body rigid, face screwed up around fear and the expectation of pain, the animal plunging, selfish and taking.

And there was none.

His hand slipped from behind her back, and she felt the ghosts of his fingertips on her cheeks, reading her face, and then he pulled back--she felt the weight uncrushing her, and she thought she was free of it when she felt the warm kiss on her bared knee.  

“No,” she breathed, struggling, her foot slipping on the stone, her old arms unable to do more than batter the air. “No.”

He stopped, only for a second, and then she felt his mouth on her thigh again, lower down, closer to her sex, his shoulders spreading her thighs apart. He wouldn’t stop. He didn’t understand, he took her refusal as urgency, wanting him to hurry up, not dally in the foreplay. Miss Giddy couldn’t think of a way to make him understand, even as she felt a liquid rush of heat inside her. It was wrong—she was old enough to be his mother—his grandmother, even, in the way things worked out here, and she was old, too old for a feathering kiss up her inner thigh, too old to surge under a hand cupping over her. Too old to feel so weak, so wanting.

His hand snaked over the seam of her thigh, questing over her belly, finding one of her hands and lacing his fingers with hers, squeezing tight enough to almost hurt as he shifted his weight over, resting his mouth on her sex. She could feel his breath, feel him breathing in the scent of her, and his hand squeezed hers again, just as she felt the first electric touch of his tongue. It connected, like a circuit in her brain, the part that saw, where Joe would look for opportunity, story. He’d heard her, felt her pain, her sorrow, and this was an attempt, crude and animal, to make her feel better. It was so…primitive, and pure and yet twisted both at once that it took—literally—her breath away, stealing the air from her lungs, and it became less something she didn’t want than something she did not want to refuse, to break the fragile thread of some sort of intimacy, some empathy in him.

He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand and he was rousing her blood in her veins, and she squeezed back with her hand in his, like a pact.  

He made a sound, something like a growl, half-tuned, sucking the inner lips of her sex into his mouth, sliding his tongue between them, slicked with her fluid, his body shifting like an animal’s below her. She gave a whispering sigh, trying to be quiet, trying to be still, trying to accept, to let the waves of want and passion and lust sweep through her again, when she’d given up thought of ever feeling them again.

His free hand rested on her belly, around her thigh, fingers wide, spreading her open, and she had never, even in the hospital giving birth to Nicky, felt so vulnerable, so exposed, even though he could see none of it, none of her tattooed limbs spread awkwardly before him, the cool night air almost burning against her wet, aroused flesh.

Which he covered, a moment later, with his hot mouth, grazing his teeth up the hood of swollen flesh, pushing it up, aside, out of his way, to expose the darker, sensitive little node of her clitoris, flicking his tongue against it, sucking it into his mouth, while she thrashed, helpless against her own flooding need, against him.

She couldn’t hold out for long, not against the way he knowingly toyed with her, suckling and flicking over it, the strange growl he made vibrating against it. Her free hand caught his forearm, kneading it, almost desperately, and she heard her own voice, a soft river of sound, murmuring words that weren’t words, as she felt the release start to pool in her belly, hot and tingling and restless, until she couldn’t fight it any more, her thighs trembling around his blind face. She choked out the scream that threatened to rise through her body, knowing that the guard would come and see her, see them, and now the moment was too intimate, too close, to be shared and known by others who had even less of an idea of what this meant.

Her short nails dug into his hand, his arm, sinking crescents into his pale skin, her whole body quivering, her mind fuzzed with a long-forgotten drowsy sort of bliss. And even the way he flicked his tongue, sharp and fast, like a lizard’s, over her still-throbbing clit, causing her body to jump and twitch as it plucked something sweet and elastic deep in her belly, was a kind of intimacy, him playing on her body like an instrument.

The waves of the orgasm had subsided, just to the point where her limbs felt heavy, her body drained, wrung out, when she felt the sharp pain on her inner thigh—teeth, his teeth, and he bit a crescent of flesh, grinding down, hard enough to bruise.

Marking her, she thought, through the shock of the pain, snapping her half-upright, jerking that scream that she’d thought had faded from her throat. Claiming her in some dark, blind, primal way, with a circle of bruises, his own branding, with the sound he wrung from her lungs.

Maybe he wanted to hear that sound; he relented, abruptly, pushing to sit, then rise, hooking her undergarment over her hip as he smoothed down her skirts, in one seamless gesture.

When the door opened, the guard bursting into the room, all he saw was Miss Giddy, shakily rising. He couldn’t see the bite on her thigh, or feel the lingering, echoing throb of release in her body. All he saw was an old woman, and a blind mute, standing, as though puppets waiting to be given a scene.

“You all right?”

“I’m…fine,” Miss Giddy said, uncertainly, trying to gather some plausible story around her, to hide a moment that still felt too naked, too exposed. “I’m just…tired, I think.” Tired, exhausted, needing time and space and aloneness to think, to put the pieces in some order.

She turned to offer a nod to Coma, but he pulled her into a hug, again, like he had in the vault, the kind of hug that looked innocent, and would have felt innocent and sweet and pure, as well, if she couldn’t smell the sweet muskiness of her own body on his mouth, feel the hard rod of an erection pressing against her thigh.

Miss Giddy reached out a hand, blindly, for the War Boy. They were trained, she knew, she counted on, by Immortan Joe to be faultlessly polite to the upper Hierarchy, and he stepped forward, taking her hand and reaching behind her to cup her other elbow, to steady her. She murmured a thanks, finding she needed the support for her still trembling knees. “I think I’m ready to go now,” she said, managing a wan smile up at him, taking refuge in the blandness of his face, the steady strength of his arms under hers as the War Boy guided her gently to the door.

“Seems like he likes you, Miss Giddy.”


End file.
